Sorry, no story here. Just a brain sketch.
It took him a month to eat One Hundred Years of Solitude, and thirteen days to eat Unbearable Lightness of Being. “When in doubt”, he used to say, “Eat short stories.” A good amount of people had asked him why he did what he did, and to all of them he said “poverty”. But that was, of course, a lie. He wore only the finest of clothes — and didn’t the books cost him any money? No — he ate books as a rule just to appease his soul, his starved soul; only letters could feed it. Once they were in his stomach, he could really feel the stories: be one with the characters and make the novel’s reality his own.